


Reverie, on New Year's Eve

by hanezeve



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: Daydreaming, One-Sided Attraction, Stream of Consciousness, abuse of certain other punctuations, and if you do it's all just a part of Claude's confused mind, as I am posting this I realised major inconsistency but I hope you don't notice it, no quotations marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanezeve/pseuds/hanezeve
Summary: Claude enters a trance while holding a pie.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda/Claude Frollo
Kudos: 4





	Reverie, on New Year's Eve

For some reason, the dessert shop that he had passed thousands of times every day yet never so much as glanced at caught his attention that day. It’s almost New Year, and the establishment normally only frequented by wealthy madames, whose veils fell down from the top of their tall henins to their feet, was presently surrounded by all kinds of people, taking what little money they had saved during the year to buy their family something good to eat. 

Children scuttled through the tightly-packed, imposing crowd. Some of them were flamboyantly dressed, the sons and daughters of petty nobles and fortunate burghers; others were street urchins who came because the place was an especially convenient place for begging, thanks to the prevailing sense of festive generosity. They extended their necks, staring enviously at the lucky ones as they received pounds of sweets from the hands of the shop-owner.

And then there’s the children in-between the two extremes, neither too rich nor too poor, all dressed in their newest set of clothes that their half-asleep mother had only just completed the previous night. Everyone—children and adults—was shouting, haggling, pleading, crying, laughing, talking, screaming, asking for alms, and occasionally hitting each other. The Tower of Babel could hardly have had a more varied scene.

What is the price of that lemon pie?

Claude turned his head. The inquirer was a bearded, middle-aged man—an artisan, perhaps?—judging by the apron he forgot to take off.

Ah...lemon pie…

He watched the shopkeeper’s wife take out the pie in question from the back of the store, and the two bargained for it with many gestures: the price of one slice...how much of a slice should be cut…

At last the frowning artisan shook his head and left. Doubtlessly the daintily decorated dessert proved to be too expensive. To think of it, even his own family seldom ate such delicacies, though not necessarily because of money...He remembered that he passed most of the holidays in the university. And when one celebrates festivals by crouching in front of a desk, it hardly seems proper to be prodigious about such base cravings. Still, he remembered that he did, in fact, have a sweet tooth.

He floated towards the shop as if under a spell, and without much of a hassle bought the lemon pie. Although he constantly lectured Jehan about their need for being thrifty, Claude’s financial circumstances were not at all as bad as he tried to let on.

Maybe Jehan saw through him long ago. He rolled his eyes; he knew he was never good at pretending.

The shopkeeper, sensing a wealth of potential businesses, asked him if he needed anything else. But the priest who just so suddenly appeared left as if he had not heard anything.

He hoped that she had a sweet tooth, too.

In the turn of an eye he was before the doors of Notre-Dame. He cannot remember how he arrived there—of course, he was notorious for ignoring his immediate surroundings, bt now he almost couldn’t feel the passage of time. To Claude, the world was quiet, and the air was clear like glass, forming a fragile barricade. Even the clouds in the sky seemed frozen. He felt that he could see nothing, only sensing his own existence and a point which shone in brilliant light, high up on the now-vanished cathedral.

He walked towards that point.

Several thousand flights of stairs flew away under his feet. He arrived at the highest parts of the edifice, where one could ever hear the sound of wind, and survey the entire city of Paris—from the glittering Seine river and the noble spirals of countless churches to the hazy blue hills on the horizon, shrouded in mist. Standing there, away from the noise, filth, and imperfection of the netherworld, he always felt his heart growing loftier, so that beholding the eternal sky was also easier...

But today he didn’t pause to watch the sky. When he passed the bell-tower, the name of Quasimodo reflexively flashed before his mind—Claude grew used to calling his adopted son and occupying him with miscellaneous small tasks, and moreover, ever since the gypsy girl came to Notre-Dame it was he who had been taking care of her—but he soon decided against this thought. He waved his hand, as if the physical act would drive away the intruder in his mind. No, he doesn’t need Quasimodo. This gift was his, and his joy alone.

Almost standing on his toes, he opened the door lightly. Just a crack at first, as if he were still a boy, afraid to open the dark, dusty attic door; but paradoxically, he was at the same time struck sick with the want of knowledge. Hanging between life and death, he wanted to be somewhere else.

He peered in. She was there.

From the second when that pair of large, dark eyes met his own, he felt himself blushing with a bashfulness that he was afraid to admit. 

This is the point of no return. Claude grasped the doorknob tightly. Today, he will do whatever he wants to, just for once.

His trophy from the dessert shop in one hand, and with the other hand lifting the corner of his cassock out of habitual motion, Claude crossed the threshold and quietly walked besides her. She sat there without a word, hugging her knees and craning her neck upwards to stare at him as he sat down on the floor beside her mattress.

He gestured toward the empty plate at the corner, and asked her, did you eat?

She made a noise of affirmation. Or so he thought—but Claude couldn’t really make it out.

Look, I brought desserts. It’s almost New Year, I think we should...celebrate a little.

He unwrapped the pie, and stared at its crust for a second, as if unsure what to do. Suddenly he remembered that he had a knife—a poniard or something, so he took it out. 

Sometime unnoticed, the sun came out. Perhaps the clouds which perpetually covered the Parisian sky finally dispersed somewhat, or perhaps the sun, crawling west, finally found the fortunate angle where it shone into the little cell, that merry sunlight lit the somewhat stifling arched ceiling. Even the air and the cold stone walls seemed like they were expanding under the golden glow.

His knife was also encased in silver-white as it reflected the light. He cut a slice of pie, and carefully held one hand under it to catch any falling crumbs. 

Eat like this, I don’t have a plate.

He leaned forward, delivering the sweetness to her mouth. The girl was still staring at him. Always staring at him. In a flash, he thought he saw in her eyes—what? His head hurt, and he stopped thinking. But after this little incident, she opened her mouth and bit a little piece.

Claude laughed.

She held out her hand to take the slice of pie from him, and proceeded to nibble on it. He cut a slice for himself as well, watching her while he savoured the taste. The sun was golden; she was golden, Claude’s eyes were golden, and the lemon pie in their hands was baked to a perfect golden-brown. Dust floated around lazily against the background of the illuminated arches. He shifted closer to her, and leaned his head on her shoulder. She still did not move. 

Suddenly, he wanted to chide her, because she was even colder than he was, like a statue in the cathedral of Notre-Dame. Claude has had enough dealings with silent statues in his life.

Would they be warmer, if they leaned into each other like this? Claude knew that in the north, far away from temperate France, sometimes the air became so cold that even the ocean was frozen. The people would cut large slabs of ice out of which they carved sculptures. These ephemeral monuments endured for but a season, melting when spring came again. Claude felt himself melting, but she was the same as always.

Do you want more pie? There’s still quite some left. She shook her head, so Claude kissed her. He licked his lips, unsure whether what he tasted was the sweetness of the lemon pie or the sweetness of Esmeralda’s mouth.

And then……………..

Nothing happened. Claude really couldn’t discern anymore. Feeling a heavy drowsiness in his head, he slept.

Monsieur? Monsieur?

He started, someone was calling him. The streets were empty. Perhaps a few minutes passed, perhaps a few hours...the winter nights always arrived too fast; a second ago the sun was still hanging low in the pale sky, but now it had already disappeared below the horizons, and all that remained was the faint remains of a dim heaven. That was the memory that day had once reigned. Aided by this weak light, he strained his eyes to see who was calling him. 

Monsieur—what are you doing? You were standing here frozen like a statue since you came out of that dessert shop…!

It was a raggedly dressed boy. He might have been one among the throng of them who ran about while the dessert shop was still open, but even if Claude did set eyes on him before, he wouldn’t have remembered. After a while, all the street urchins started to look the same, mere decorations in the lower regions of Paris. Not unlike gargoyles—only that the stone creatures lived nearer to the sky.

You shouldn’t stand here alone after dark. His eyes darted around. You almost got mugged, I’m sure—but I scared him away. It’s happened just now—see? That’s the man, he’s still running. 

Claude didn’t bother to see who almost mugged him. There was not enough light to see anything. He put a hand on his forehead...a fever. What was he doing? 

It’s so cold now—the temperature dropped rapidly once the sun had set. A lonely gust tore through the narrow alleyways, assailing the wretches who had nowhere to go. Old men, mostly; not even the Cour des Miracles took them in. They went quietly, burnt candles quickly snuffed out by the harrowing wind. 

He wore no cloak, and the chill also pierced through his thin habit, causing him to shiver slightly. Lowering his eyes, he saw the neatly wrapped lemon pie in his hands—he bought it not long ago, but it’s already cold.

The boy looked at him with a puppy-like expectation. Claude knew he wanted something in return for his bravery in scaring away the mugger. But who knows, maybe while Claude indulged in his fantasy, the boy himself had slipped a hand into his pouch and had taken a few coins. Regardless of that possibility, Claude gave him a denier.

Immediately he was showered with profuse thanks, accompanied with a deep bow, so low that the urchin’s straw-coloured hair almost swept the muddy street. Such a show reminded him so much of his old student Pierre, that Claude, though feeling rather dour, was provoked to bring just the tug of a smile to the corner of his mouth. Do you have parents? he asked.

No, monsieur. But I have two sisters. One older, one younger.

I don’t suppose you have had lemon pies? 

Of course not, monsieur— the boy’s eyes widened. Are you also giving that to me?

He placed the wrapped pie in the orphan’s hands. Yes, take it. Share it with your sisters too.

Claude turned to leave. He didn’t particularly want to hear the boy’s renewed, more impassioned and more ostentatious expressions of gratitude. Once, he would have invited him to pass the night at Notre-Dame, and on the morrow he would have tread every street and visited every person that his connections could get hold of in order to find the orphan a place to stay. But he’s tired. Every day there were orphan made to wander...every day foundlings abandoned on the steps of Notre-Dame...every day women hanged on the Place du Grêve...every day those who buy lemon pies...every day

Suddenly he caught an urge to say something more. Clutching his forehead, he tried to catch the thought.

No need to thank me...I don’t really like lemon pies. Happy New Year.

He threw the sentence behind him. The orphan shouted for a name, but the priest never heard him. The wind, perhaps, swallowed that young voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's my first work here (or anywhere public), I hope you will excuse me for a somewhat long and unnecessary note. 
> 
> I wrote this pretty much for the sake of effect (about a state of mind?), without caring too much for accuracy (or plot holes), so the picture of medieval French people celebrating New Year is based nothing but my imagination. I think it feels more like the 18th century than the 15th. Also, I just realised that Esmeralda's sanctuary was not during winter. I don't know how I missed this point, to be honest, but...let's just pretend to ignore it.
> 
> And it might be weird that there was such a big deal made about lemon pie. I wrote this while eating one, and it seemed a pretty big deal to me--probably because I, like Claude here, didn't eat a lot of pies. And I would imagine that lemons are somewhat rare in that particular setting, hence. 
> 
> Finally, despite the slightly depressing tone at the end, I sincerely with all of you (fellow strangers) a very happy New Year! 
> 
> -hanezeve


End file.
